


I'll Take Care of You

by kingollie



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: As in both 47's and that's how i wrote it, Gen, Manipulation, Post-Canon, Stream of Consciousness, based on the secret ending, it isn't nice really but i really wanted to touch on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingollie/pseuds/kingollie
Summary: Forty-Seven doesn't remember anything before The Constant.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	I'll Take Care of You

**Author's Note:**

> So HITMAN III, right? Whew. Another warning, this is set post-game, specifically post the secret ending (where 47 wipes his own memory). So watch out for that.
> 
> I just thought about the concept of Edwards keeping 47 close by essentially using him as a personal bodyguard (keep your enemies close, all that) so this happened.

The sentiment of 'care' is one which Forty-Seven only knows of in a peripheral sense -- akin to some vague awareness passed through occasionally colloquial exchange; he knows very little in general, but the notion of caring is one of the few he finds to be steadfast. He's never been directed to express or receive it, but is aware that the offer is perpetually there, dangling vacantly overhead. Still he doesn't know how to reach up and grasp it, there is no mannerism he has learned to express such a want. Yet, it's there. Constantly. 

"I'll take care of you." Resigned to a villa somewhere south of the equator, the only other person he has ever recalled, lazily spills the words out at will - he speaks in low rasping syllables, his voice never much higher than any mouthful of air he breathes. Occasionally, 47 wonders if the man is simply incapable of projecting his voice, as he finds himself completely able to do as much. Regardless of his peculiar dictation, the statement finds 47 with a palatable emptiness hanging upon it, although the man has never found the inkling of desire needed to state as much. He doesn't know how to ask why, he barely addresses the other as it is. Like many other things, the other's name is just out of reach, maybe there were things before him, maybe there will be things after. 47 is uncertain. 

He knows, in some sense, that he's practically an over-glorified bodyguard, he's heard as much from guests when they flit about him and duck from his line of view. And without instruction he finds himself warding off people inclined to harm the companion he finds himself alongside; if he's gone, everything he knows will be gone too. Perhaps this was always his job, but that never sits quite right. At one point he asks the other man, who glances at him with narrowed eyes and curled features, and promptly informs him:

"You needn't worry, you stay, I will take care of you." It doesn't feel like comfort, but 47 finds himself with no point of reference, so how does he really know?

Time passes without any more expression beyond the occasional dip in temperature and the leaves on the foliage outside of the windows cycling through their array of colours. 47 stays, for lack of somewhere else to go, the other man rarely leaves either, slinking between rooms and working at his laptop. And he has been more inclined to dabble in 47's company lately, so the bald man makes no complaints. 

They're sat, just out of reach of the wind, at a table on the balcony, the other is gnawing on a pastry (it's the best comparison 47 has, similar to the way in which the squirrels whittle down any scraps he offers them). He doesn't find himself with as much of a need to eat, he merely appreciates the other man beside him. It feels less lonely when they're in silence, without speech there's no peculiar dynamic to skew the situation with, although the intimacy is momentary. The other stops, gazes at him.

"What are you thinking?" It's new. 47 frowns, considering. 

"Your name. What's your name?" It's not what he was thinking about at that moment, but there's no better time to ask.

"Why?"

47 shrugs, doesn't break eye contact. 

"Arthur."

"Hello Arthur." It's the first time he's ever greeted someone, as far as he can remember - but he can't remember far back anyway. Arthur bows his head.

"47."

For a second, 'care' seems tangible. But then Arthur breaks the moment, continues deconstructing his food in the least efficient manner conceivable and 47 turns his head away, back over to the garden below. It's still warm, despite the wind. 

They get older. 47 doesn't show it as much as Arthur, who probably was born before him - if his own estimation counts for anything, and with age the flow of people coming to meet the man ebbs into a trickle.

Arthur doesn't seem to mind that; seemingly as a result, he's lost the suit, at some point he emerged into the living room without it and 47 never saw the thing again. He still wears shirts, albeit they're floral and paisley, softened is his demeanor alongside them. 47 stops wearing his blazer as much, it feels something like solidarity. With it comes more time between them. 47 presumes that he enjoys it in some capacity, because he doesn't feel the need to retreat from the situation when Arthur watches a movie beside him, or invites him to help cook. 

It's mundane. But he doesn't know much else. 

He does retreat when the man falls asleep against him, the intricate patterns upon his shirt merging with the uncontaminated white of 47's own. It feels like too much, and there's something unconscious informing him that it's dangerous. So he leaves the room.

Neither of them mention it afterwards.

Arthur disappears at intervals, he has people to inaugurate apparently, and 47 wanders the property with little else to do. 

He could leave. But then what? He knows well of the other's oppressive reach, and equally isn't sure that there was ever anyone out there to receive him. Occasionally he thinks there is - knows it, in a capacity he can't articulate. There's no names to put to that sentiment, and so he remains.

Besides. Would they care?

**Author's Note:**

> I did not write a ton bc I really just wanted to post one of my stream of consciousness esc snippets.
> 
> The paisley shirts were very important to include as Philip Rosch, Edwards' VA, wore one in his cast interview.


End file.
